The Things We Do For Love
by K Hanna Korossy
Summary: Mother's Little Helper tag: Despite Gadreel and the Mark and all the disappointments and pain, they keep trying, and caring. Because they're brothers.


_Season 13 (!) starts this week, so I'm going to take a little break. But I have 8 more fics to put up for season 9, and I don't want to wait until next summer, so I'll be back during show breaks (or if I just feel like it!). Stay tuned! - KHK_

 **The Things We Do For Love**  
K Hanna Korossy

The problem with a head injury is that it makes you forget you shouldn't have alcohol with a head injury.

Sam didn't think about that until much later, when he could think. At that moment, as he stood up and the room moved with him, all that went through his mind was _whoa_ as he threw his hands out looking for something stable in all that spinning.

Stable found him. His arms were grabbed in steel grips, and even as Sam flinched his eyes shut, he grabbed back. He still wasn't sure which way was up, but now he wouldn't fall.

"Sam?"

"Jus'a minute." He found his feet and planted them, lifting his head by cautious degrees until it no longer felt like it would roll off. Cracking his eyes open found black edging his vision, but his brother was framed in the middle, solid and frowning.

"You wanna tell me what happened in Illinois?" Dean asked in that calm voice that Sam knew wasn't calm at all.

Illinois. Oh, right. He hadn't really told Dean about that, had he. About Abaddon harvesting souls, yes, but not Henry and Josie, or the nuns, or the really hard pillar that that possessed nun had tossed him into. And he totally would, just as soon as he was sure he could open his mouth without hurling.

Dean conveniently read his mind and huffed. "Come on, bed's calling."

Yeah, that…that sounded good.

Dean hitched an arm under his shoulder, giving the room another drunken jolt, and across his back. Ribs protested and Sam hissed. The arm shifted quickly lower. "Dude, I swear…" But, oddly, the anger in Dean's voice was gone, replaced by weary resignation.

Sam's head cleared some by the time they reached the room—he'd just stood up too fast, sure—and he was able to sit on the edge of his bed without tumbling off, or flopping back. Elbows braced on his knees and back throbbing, Sam gingerly washed his hands down his face.

Dean had one of his boots off before Sam even realized it. He opened his mouth to protest, then shut it, not really wanting to lean over to take them off himself. He just listened to Dean putter, leave, and return, only opening his eyes again when a damp water bottle nudged his hand.

"Not giving you the strong stuff after the whiskey, but this should take the edge off."

Sam sighed and accepted, concentrating enough that the bottle only wobbled a little in his hand. Dean didn't trust that the bunker pipes didn't have lead in them, so he always made sure they were stocked with bottled water. Sam drained it, waited until Dean plucked it out his hand, then finally, finally lay back. The ceiling gave one lazy twirl before settling down.

His legs were lifted and dumped after him on the mattress, and a blanket tossed over him.

He grunted a thanks.

"You ready to talk now?" There was the scrape of a chair moving closer, the chair he was pretty sure Dean had put in his room exactly for times like this. The thought managed to sink Sam's spirits even lower.

"Yeah," he sighed, and rubbed his eyes. He hadn't slept much in Illinois, either, come to think of it. But he had to get this off his chest, and Dean had to know. He actually even seemed to be listening this time. Sam opened his eyes and pushed up clumsily on the pillow so he wasn't completely flat. His stomach lurched a little, but that was okay, he'd sleep it off soon enough. And Dean was starting to fidget. "Yeah. So, back in 1958, there were these nuns…"

00000

He hadn't expected Henry.

The Josie part was kind of a shock, too, although obviously Abaddon had crawled into her at some point. But Dean hadn't expected their grandfather to play a part in the story, or for it to end so badly.

Sam trailed off, face pale but not quite so pinched. He was rubbing tiredly at the edge of the blanket, waiting for Dean's reaction to hearing this new chapter of the twisted Winchester saga.

He needed a drink: that was his reaction.

"Figures, right?" Sam abruptly said.

Dean blinked, for once having no idea what his brother was thinking. "What?"

"Yet another person sacrifices their life for our family, and unleashes a Knight of Hell in the process."

Dean frowned. "Or, Josie sacrificed herself for someone she loved. She was dead either way, and it wasn't like being gutted would've stopped Abaddon."

"It doomed the Men of Letters."

Dean leaned forward. "In case you hadn't noticed, dude, we _are_ the Men of Letters. Well," he said with a wave of the hand, "you are, anyway."

He actually made Sam smile a little, and that alone made his gut unclench some. Sam was the optimist of the team; it screwed with Dean's head when his brother was the one who got all fatalistic.

"So, what's up with the souls?" Dean plowed on. "It's not like demons can just steal them, right? Or why waste time on deals?"

Sam hitched a shoulder, and flinched at the movement. Right, demon-powered nun-fight. Dean got up to retrieve some supplies from the bathroom, motioning Sam to keep talking.

"Uh, maybe it's not about the souls being the army?" Sam raised his voice, and Dean heard every word from the hallway as he hurried to grab what he needed and get back. "Maybe it's about the power of the souls again, like Cas got from Purgatory?"

Dean waited to answer until he was back in the room. "Yeah, but even the Purgatory souls were dead. They weren't just stolen."

Sam made a face when he saw what Dean was carrying. But he still started levering upright, curled painfully forward, and didn't shrug Dean off when he reached to help.

Dean lifted the two layers of shirts and felt along each rib. There was bruising, and one crack for sure, but it wasn't bad. He put on a light wrap that would still let Sam breathe deep, and then got his brother flat again with a couple of cold packs in strategic spots.

"I dunno," Sam continued the conversation minutes later as if they hadn't stopped, a little breathless and hoarse with pain. "Souls are complicated, man. I mean, remember Famine?"

Yeah, Dean scowled, no way was he forgetting that son of a bitch anytime soon. And Sam was carefully not mentioning his own brush with soullessness, how Cas had said back then that his soul was fried and unsalvageable. But a year later, after Cas had somehow taken the crazy from him, he'd changed his story: Sam's soul had pretty much healed. No kidding souls were complicated.

"I'm gonna get some sleep," Sam said finally, sounding not just tired but bone-deep weary. He turned his head to the side and closed his eyes, digging his chin into the pillow. His arm was wrapped around his middle, no doubt trying to ease the throb of his ribs. A thirty-year-old going on seventy.

" _Dean. I-I could really use your help down here."_

 _"I'm getting close, Sam. I can't drop the ball on Abaddon now."_

The inside of Dean's arm tingled uncomfortably, and he absently rubbed at it.

 _"But you have to know, with the Mark comes a great burden."_

 _"I'm all in, no matter what the consequences."_

"You gonna stand there and watch me sleep?"

Sam's drowsy voice made him start. "What?" Dean spluttered. "No. Just…"

Sam opened one eye to study him. "'Just'?"

"I should've gone with you. To Illinois," Dean said gruffly.

Both eyes opened, a frown appearing between them. "Dude, I'm a big boy. I can handle a hunt on my own."

"Yeah, I know that, but…" The Abaddon stuff was important—very important. He wasn't wrong to focus on that. But…Dean had spent weeks trying to make up for what he'd done, to get Sam to stay with him. And now Sam had wanted him there on a case, and Dean turned him down. His brother had no idea what the Mark was doing to him, how Dean feared it was changing him. How even if Sam could forgive him, Dean could still end up being the one who couldn't stay.

Sam was waiting, patient and puzzled and concerned.

"I wanna be there for you. You know?" Dean asked a little desperately.

"'Course. You are, Dean." Sam pushed up on his elbows. "Hey, y'all right?" He was looking flat-out worried now.

Dean's mouth twisted wryly. What he wouldn't have given a month ago for Sam to look at him like that again. And now… "I don't know," he said honestly. "But I'm tryin', okay? I need you to know that."

"Okay. I do know." Sam was still frowning at him, but exhaustion was winning, tugging him back down to the bed. "You get some sleep too, all right?"

"Yeah. I'll do that."

Sam snorted his disbelief but closed his eyes again. He was asleep in seconds, muscles relaxing and face smoothing out.

Dean watched him a minute more, expression unguarded now that Sam couldn't see it.

Then he walked out of the room and returned to the library and his research.

 **The End**


End file.
